The Reaper Weary
by saffroncremebrulee
Summary: The Mirror of Erised remembers every image it's ever shown and every person who has ever gazed inside- their dreams, motivations, lies, and fears. Ensemble cast fic. Spoilers through DH.
1. Life

**The Reaper Weary**

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Harry Potter, its characters, or its magical artifacts. This is a piece of fanfiction for entertainment.

The title is a tribute to the poetry of Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I do not own that either, merely noting a thematic similarity.

...

He reckons he shouldn't have lied to the boy.

(He _really_ shouldn't have.)

Yet the little voice in his head still whispered "For the Greater Good," even after all this time. Is the phrase tinged with less darkness now that he's chosen a different path? He doesn't know, really; but the Chosen One is currently standing in front of him, wispy like a wind-blown weed, eleven and hopeful that perhaps- just _perhaps_ \- in a place where _magic_ is real, that he could _see_ and _feel_ and _hear_ and _taste_ the reality of family after _so_ long without.

 _Of course_ it would be Harry who found the Mirror.

 _Harry_ , who resembled James down to the very last flicker of dark eyelashes; Harry, who gazed doe-eyed with that peculiar shade of Evans green tinged with sadness and strength; Harry, who has never known a soft peck on the forehead, a bedtime story, a gentle brush of finger to cheek at night- _of course_ it would be Harry whose hair only reached up to Dream James' midriff and enough courage to rival Dream James at his best to ask in that innocent, inquisitive way of children what _he_ , Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, saw in the Mirror.

A...pair of woolen socks, a suddenly-too-tired wizard replies kindly after waiting just a nuance of second too long, and the little shoulders droop just a fraction too low before Lily's (no, not Lily's, _never_ again) eyes misted over again. Dumbledore won't pretend to _not_ know the pain Harry is currently experiencing. Hadn't he, too, run a wrinkled and gnarly knuckle across the faces in the mirror, pressed too-dry lips against a mother's cheek, and read Tales of Beadle and the Bard for the miniature blonde girl happily nuzzling his palm? Didn't he know better than anyone the sharp, bone-white pain of separation as well as regret?

Even so, the older wizard reckons he probably shouldn't have lied, about this and perhaps many other things. Yet he still believes in The Greater Good and he knows as well as he knows the invisible scars binding them both that Harry carries ( _will carry_ ) enough without the ghost of what might have been and now will never be.

So he lies anyway. "It does not do to dwell on dreams, Harry, and forget to live," and a suddenly-too-old ago boy nods sadly, leaving room as the faintest outline of yet another happy family fills the frame.


	2. Choices

**Choices**

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Harry Potter. This is a work of fanfiction for entertainment.

...

She's the youngest of seven, framed by a latticework of red-gold hair emblematic of a house she's not sure she belongs to. The whole of school knows her by sight; as one particularly pale, pinch-faced blonde bit "Red hair, freckles, and hand-me-downs; no need to ask _you_ who you are."

They judge her by her reflection without _seeing_ her soul.

The red-hair is a family trait, yes, though the sparks of mischief woven like a ribbon is one shared with only two others (well, one really, if you consider twins an entity, as the Mirror does). The network of freckles across the bridge of her nose, cheekbones, and, incongruously, forearms are caramel-colored reminders that she doesn't and will not mar that space with visible scars and tattoo tributes. The pale, bone-white skin underneath is spotless except for the crescents of pink where just-bitten fingernails dug in; that kind of paleness is dichotomous against the alabaster noir of that will one day mark the image of the pale, pale boy. That, too, is a family tradition, but hers is the hand-me-down of justice and goodness, not prejudice and exclusion, and she's proud of it, same as she's proud of Uncle Fabian's book bag and Uncle Gideon's old ties.

Most people don't see her at all; just another member of a loving, if boisterous, family.

Ginny Weasley _sees_ herself, though. There is no one else in the Mirror except for the seventh girl. Same red hair, freckles, and hand-me-downs, but she's damn _proud_ of who she is, just by virtue of being herself, and damn confident in where she wants to go with nothing exception her strength and skill. _Here, there, anywhere._ Doesn't matter as long as she carries within all the courage of the times she thought fear would overwhelm. Mum and Dad's admonitions about jumping without looking need not matter. Ginny has _nerve_ ; maybe a touch too much sometimes, but if she wants to be seen, she has to see herself as brave first, even if the softest cadence a charming, charismatic sixteen-year-old still echoes across her soul.

...

He's the only son of a long-distinguished Wizarding line, forgotten by time and now forgotten by his Father. No one at Hogwarts knows who he is (much less care, really, given the sheer amount of talent the Blacks, Malfoys, Prewetts, Weasleys, etc. al sharing the tables), so he's _determined_ to make them all remember. Carve his name into the walls in broad, harsh wand-strokes. Litter his signature across every classroom, corridor, and hallway. Emblazon his signature on every available surface.

He was nothing when he stepped off the Hogwarts Express; here, though, here he will be _something_ , no, _**someone**_ , and he will **be** so to such an extent that _no one_ will ever forget him again.

Everyone judges him by his reflection without _seeing_ his soul.

(All by design, of course.)

The darkly handsome face he wears is just another mask, a tool like any other, one of perhaps three useful things he inherited. Intelligence and charisma being the other two. With these, he can appear to be anyone he wants to be here, there, anywhere. The other boys and girls fawn over Tom Riddle Sr.'s features; the professors fawn over his perfect grades ("The highest in a century!"); the "friends" fawn over his charm.

 _Fools_ , he thinks. Useful idiots, with their inane chatter and asinine dreams. Why bend the opposition when you can snap them like a useless piece of wood? If you think about it; wands were just pieces of wood. One tool is like any other, useful only for the utility it provides a owner worthy of its obedience.

Why suffer when you can rule?

(And, _oh_ , does he intend to rule.)

He intends to be the very best, too. Just like he only collects only the most impeccable witches and wizards, overwrites the existing records, and pushes magic to _its_ very soul. This trinity is all for a Greater Purpose. Fashion a new tradition, a new order, a new world-view with the only trinity of resources his filthy Father who forgot him deigned to leave in remembrance.

All Tom Riddle Jr. sees in the Mirror is himself, conquering everyone and everything so that no one, not even himself, will ever remember that he was once the forgotten son of a forgotten line purposefully forgotten by two worlds that should have bowed down and welcomed him on their knees where they _belong_.

 ** _No._**

The Mirror will not (cannot) forget Tom Marvolo Riddle, and neither will the world.


	3. Friendship

**Friendship**

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Harry Potter. This is a work of fanfiction for entertainment.

...

Moony was earth. Solid, dependable, brown and green like the impossible-seeming moving willow that arrived a few evenings before he did. On rare nights Moony has a temper that matches the one on the tree. Most of the time he's just Moony, though, just a regular, dependable boy who dreams of having friends who accepted him even after they've read page 394 of their DADA book.

(Not an easy feat, finding friends like that, even at Hogwarts.)

Moony didn't come to see the Mirror very often, probably some sort of aversion to nighttime lights. Nonetheless, he was the first in his year to find the Mirror, right on the first night of the new term, almost immediately after the Sorting Ceremony, when everyone else had skipped off to bed with their new-found friends. Instead, this pale, skinny boy with a head of unruly hair and too-bright eyes that glittered in the dark spent his first evening wandering listlessly around the halls (as no one knew he was missing because he didn't know where the Common Room was, much less how to get past the Fat Lady).

For some reason, Mrs. Norris, the cat that was usually pretty good about finding lost students and ne'er-do-wells, didn't sniff out this particular errant boy; therefore, neither Mr. Filch nor the portraits, ghosts, or poltergeist, the usual suspects for directing lost First Years into the comfort of their beds, found the this boy, either. Only the full strength of the morning light found the boy languishing in front of the Mirror, oblivious to the delicious smell of bacon and sausages that roused classmates from their sleep.

The sun found only Boy, but an infinite number of boys and girls surrounded his dream self, a tangle of arms and legs waving, laughing, hugging, and cheering a child who somehow looked as ordinary as can be under the pale, twinkling light of the moon.

...

Padfoot was sky. Ethereal, wispy, blue and silver like the impossibly-bright star his family thrust upon him, along with about a dozen or so hard and fast rules about every single thing under that sky. Padfoot doesn't like or understand any of them. All these ancient, outdated beliefs were shackles to fanatically nonsensical crazies, and Padfoot wants- no, needs- _out_ of the prison of what everyone wants him to do.

His soul yearns to be free even if his name costs everything that is right and good. Padfoot dreams of coasting through the utter freedom that is having no expectations at all, a bit like flying without a broomstick but with no destination or maps in mind. No family tree. No rules. No insanity. Just an endless stretch of open **sky** above, below, and all around.

(Not an easy feat, with a burden like that, not even at Hogwarts).

No one else understood the weight of the chains except the Dream Padfoot in the Mirror. That face is not just young-seeming but truly young at heart in the way children who grow up happy and cherished are. The same long, slightly awkward limbs still filled the space, except Dream Padfoot didn't need to bend awkward angles inside the frame. That Padfoot simply _was_ in his straight-backed, slightly ruffled glory _._ Just a pure, simple soul sharing a toothy grin with a constellation of friends who cared more about who he was and less about who he was related to.

And so yet another lost boy came to see the Mirror more often than he needs, until one night he found someone already in his spot and decided, _well_ , there was more than enough sky for two, wasn't there?

...

Wormtail was water. Flexible, yielding, colorless, shapeless, taking the color and form of whatever container he poured himself into. He's not the brightest of the bunch or anything remotely to memorable; therein lies the problem and the rub. All he wants is to fit in, to _matter_ , to be someone that people remembered and admired, and he's not afraid to become whoever he needed to be for it.

(Not an easy feat, wearing mask after mask until one becomes you, even at Hogwarts).

Unlike the others, Wormtail doesn't find the Mirror on his own. He's following the three most popular, good-looking boys in his class on their nocturnal shenanigans around the Castle when they suddenly all disappeared into a room he had never seen before. He weighs the cost and benefit of tattling before he decides they might make him envy Snivellus by the time they were done. Yes yes yes yessssssssss. _Much_ better to make friends with _that_ trio than to be their enemy, starting with sharing in their secret discoveries.

And so the Mirror sees him creep up after the other boys are sufficiently far enough away, hidden under a gossamer Cloak.

Unbeknownst to them, this not-at-all-lost boy found himself grinning at the image of an ambitious, powerful being with a too-wide smile conquering the earth and sky above.

(The reflection was as clear as ice.)


End file.
